Books, Revelation & Good Byes

On my way to Berlin, I’m listening to the audiobook It’s Not You by Ramani Durvasula.

I’ve often felt repelled by many books and podcasts about narcissism because they tend to create a division: the narcissist and the victim. But I never saw myself as a victim. I didn’t endure the torment passively – I fought back with all the strength and resources I had until I eventually ran out of strength altogether.

Many of these books and podcasts struck me as overly black-and-white, as though these people always operated according to a set pattern. Sure, some probably do. But even the label “the narcissist” felt dehumanizing to me. It ignored everything that might lie behind their behavior – their story, their own suffering, the pain that shaped them into who they are.

This doesn’t mean I want to excuse such behavior. I’m not denying that in many cases, the dynamic is indeed formulaic, with the other party being an innocent victim. But the supposedly “typical” narcissistic patterns described in these works simply didn’t fit my partner.

For a long time, I wasn’t sure if my partner truly displayed a narcissistic style or if, as he claimed, he was merely a victim of his circumstances. Maybe, I thought, he was just caught in a severe existential crisis that would push anyone to their limits.

Above all, I blamed myself for his behavior for two years. I even felt ashamed while reading those books and articles, as if I was overdramatizing things, searching for an explanation that might not even exist. But when I listened to It’s Not You, I finally realized I wasn’t wrong.

Ramani Durvasula’s book isn’t about diagnosing someone as a narcissist – we’re not doctors, after all – but about recognizing certain behaviors as a narcissistic style. There isn’t just one type of narcissist. Each pattern comes with its own nuances and behaviors. Among all of them, I found the one that matched my formal partner completely.

The vulnerable narcissist.

• Hypersensitivity to criticism: People with vulnerable narcissism are extremely sensitive to criticism and perceive even constructive feedback as a personal attack.
• Low self-esteem: Despite appearing confident on the outside, they suffer from deep insecurities and fluctuating self-worth.
• Social withdrawal: Out of shame and distrust, they often withdraw socially and avoid close relationships for fear of rejection or being hurt.
• A desperate need for validation: They crave recognition and admiration to stabilize their fragile self-image and may become depressed when that validation is lacking.
• Tendency to play the victim: They frequently see themselves as victims and project blame onto others to justify their shortcomings.

These traits often lead to complex and emotionally draining relationships. Vulnerable narcissists simultaneously seek closeness and keep their distance, afraid of being hurt.

As I listen to the book, messages from him arrive, almost as if to test whether I’ve truly learned anything and if I can apply it. After a brief exchange, I put my phone aside and fall asleep for a while while the book plays in the background.

When I wake up, I see more messages from him, and my internal alarm bells go off. What began as a simple conversation has suddenly escalated into a barrage of anger and insults.

Frantically, I search my groggy memory for a mistake. Where did I go wrong? I ask him directly, but he refuses to tell me, saying I should know what I did. The familiar mix of confusion, helplessness, and frustration sets in. Eventually, he reveals the “reason” for his anger: while I was asleep, he had asked me a question, and I hadn’t answered. He felt ignored.

I explain what happened, but this, I learn again, is the wrong move. What follows is a five-hour tirade: I have used him. I intentionally hurt him. Ever since I entered his life, it has been a nightmare of pain and suffering. He tells me he must move on because he wants to be loved. He sought friendship and love from me, but I am incapable of it. All his hopes in me – that I might finally be the person with whom he could experience love – have been crushed. I have nothing but coldness inside me. I don’t understand him, he says. I don’t even try. All I do is fight him and destroy everything, despite his endless efforts for our life together.

I step off the train, shaking. Drained. Empty. A friend picks me up. I try to hide my tears, but I can’t speak.

At his home, his wife greets me with a glass of wine. We sit on their terrace, chatting about nothing of importance, and I feel as though I’ve entered another world. Suddenly, I can clearly see the contrast between the “normality” I’m experiencing now and the absurd whirlwind I’ve been stuck in for the past five hours – no, the past two years.

Why do I keep seeking his closeness, even though it’s so destructive? Part of me believes that the drama is “real” communication. That the chaos and intensity feel genuine, alive.

And then I remember how often he accused me of being “fake” whenever I was kind or in a good mood. The memory hurts. Did he truly believe that my true self was evil?

I look at my phone one last time. More messages.

He tells me I owe him – on every level – and that I must repay my debt. I send one last message. I ask for forgiveness for everything he thinks I’ve done. I send him love. And then I close every single channel, one by one.

I feel awful. I understand his pain. Being ignored feels horrible. But does it justify hours of insults?

Had I simply apologized immediately instead of explaining myself, perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this. Because what he wants is to be seen and validated in his feelings. And I failed at that. Over and over.

“No contact,” they say. Only that way is complete healing possible. Perhaps it’s feasible if there are no binding elements like children involved.

At first, even the idea of separating felt impossible – leaving him alone with our shared projects and goals seemed unthinkable. But I managed to do that.

No contact, though? That seemed even harder.

But after those five hours of anger, blame, and chaos, I stepped into a different, calmer, more loving world. And I realized: I can’t live like this anymore.

Someone once asked me why I didn’t leave sooner. When you’re caught in a whirlwind, your vision is clouded. What’s right in front of you becomes your entire world. For me, there was no external work life, no evenings with friends to hold up a mirror and give me perspective.

Until I finally did step outside – and that glimpse of another world changed everything.

Sometimes, all it takes is a moment in a different reality to see clearly again. That perspective can come through friends, through people who catch you when you fall. It can be as simple as a shared glass of wine on a terrace and a banal conversation that reminds you: Life can be different. “Normal” should be different.

For me, that seemingly small moment was enough to draw a final line.

With that thought, I close the door to his chaos one last time. Not because it’s easy, but because I finally understand it’s necessary.

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Be well,

Vaselisa